Carried by
radio, the shrill note sounded by Will o’ the Whistle was the signal for
resistance fighters all over Britain to rise as one against
the Kushantis.

D-for-Deliverance
Day had come!

FOR NEW READERS.

When the KUSHANTIS, a
cruel and savage Oriental race,

whose emblem was the Yellow Sword,
used a sleeping gas and invaded Britain

for the second time, in 1993, they
thought they had conquered the country.

But there were Britishers in hiding
who were determined to overthrow

the Kushantis. These men operating
in secret, were in South Wales,

Durham, Cumberland and
Dumfriesshire.

The South
Wales region, which the enemy had made a Forbidden

Area, contained a secret arsenal of
nuclear explosives to be used against

the Kushantis when the time was
right. The resistance fighters there,

used the old West Junction Railway
across the Heads of the Valleys as

their means of transport and relied
on steam locomotives. The veteran

driver was WILL O’
THE WHISTLE and the name was also used as a

code sign for the group.

The leader of the South
Wales resistance fighters was BRADSHAW,

a former major in the Royal
Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. He had

taken over when DAVID
LLEWELLYN, the original leader, was wounded.

Bradshaw’s plans for D-Day, the day
of deliverance from the enemy,

were nearly ready. On their way to
a council of war with him, the leaders

from the North were captured by
Black Troopers of the dreaded Kushanti

Secret Police and held prisoner at
Pontigos, a hamlet on the Hereford Road,

to await the arrival of Kommandant
Krait, chief of the Secret Police in South

Wales.

Bradshaw led a swift raid and
rescued the prisoners. Now he and his men lay

in ambush for the Kommandant.

There was snow in
the air. Flakes settled on Bradshaw’s shoulders as he stood in the playground
of Pontigos school by the side of the main road from Hereford. He
had a score of men with him, mostly Welshmen who had seen their homes burned,
their people killed by the Kushanti invaders.

Inside the school, Kommisar Peku,
the local leader of the Black Troopers, as the Kushanti secret police were
known, was tied up with several of his men. Others were dead. “Look, there are
headlamps!” exclaimed Ira Jones, a schoolmaster whose family had been murdered
by the Kushantis and who lived for revenge. “The yellow rats are coming now.”
The glow of headlamps lit up the bare trees at the side of the road. Kommandant
Krait, chief of men who were responsible for many terrible deeds of
terrorization, was on his way. Just beyond the school was a level crossing
where the single line went over the road. The gates had gone. The oncoming
Kushantis vehicles swept round a curve. Bradshaw counted six of them. He had
men concealed in the playground and in the school building. Bradshaw had
ordered that there should be no shooting until he whistled. The whistle he used
was a railway whistle. As the vehicles approached, he retreated with Ira Jones
into the old cycle shed. He had an automatic pistol, and the teacher was armed
with an automatic rifle. The first vehicle was an armoured car with a gun
turret. It was followed by a well-known make of British limousine. Behind the
limousine was a vehicle that the Kushantis termed the Doom Wagon. It had been
brought for the transfer of the British prisoners whom Krait expected to find.
The others were troop carrying lorries. The armoured car swept past and, as it
stopped, the turret swiveled and the gun pointed at the school. “Do they smell
a rat, or is it just a normal precaution?” growled Bradshaw. Out of the lorries
sprang the Black Troopers, each man with an automatic carbine. The soldiers
were bigger than the average Kushanti, picked men for the task of holding down
a subject people. They formed up at the side of the road. From the big
limousine stepped Kommandant Krait. And he looked the personification of evil.
Unsuspecting, the Kommandant walked towards the gate. Then things happened fast
and unexpectedly. Will o’ the Whistle, whose train had been standing in
Pontigos Halt, near by, took a hand. With a sudden hiss of steam, heard through
the pounding of the jet motors of the Kushanti vehicles, Will drove his engine
forward. The locomotive was Number 1400, a small 0-4-2 tank engine—meaning it
had four driving wheels and two bogie wheels—but it weighed forty tons and was
going pretty fast. There was a tremendous crash as it struck the armoured car,
which had stopped on the level crossing, and turned it on its side. Bradshaw
put the whistle to his lips, and at its strident note there was a rat-tat-tat
of automatic guns as the ambushers rose from behind the school wall and blasted
the Black Troopers. With his features twisted with fear, Kommandant Krait
bolted towards the school. Ira Jones stepped out of the cycle shed and riddled
him with bullets.

The Plan For D-Day

On the main road
outside Monmouth was a Kushanti military check point. Arc lamps lit the highway
up brilliantly. A vast pole painted yellow and black was the barrier. At the
side of the road was the guardhouse. That night Lieutenant Kang was in command.

Headlamps appeared, coming from the
north. Two lorries slowed down and stopped at the barrier. The vehicles were
loaded with packing cases. The boxes were filled with loot that was to be
shipped at Newport on
their way to Kushanti. Lieutenant Kang strutted out of the guardhouse pulling
on his gloves. A curved sword hung from his belt. He snapped an order. The
drivers and the guards of the lorries got down. Kang demanded to see the
numerous documents every driver had to carry. Meanwhile the sergeant and
troopers of the check point started to make a thorough inspection of the
lorries. While this was going on, a big limousine came silently from the north.
It passed the lorries. As it stopped in front of the barrier the driver blew
the horn. Lieutenant Kang’s head jerked up from scrutinizing the documents. His
scowl at being hooted at vanished when he saw the limousine and the driver and
passenger in the uniform of the Black Troopers. He screeched urgently for the
barrier to be opened immediately. The pole was swung aside and the limousine
purred into movement. The Lieutenant drew his sword and raised it in salute.
The car accelerated and the driver relaxed. “What did I tell you?” he said, and
the voice was that of Bradshaw. “Yes, it was a good idea to bluff them with
Black Trooper uniforms and Kommandant Krait’s car,” replied his passenger, who
was none other than Ira Jones. “We’ll go as far as Newport and
then make our way into the hills,” said Bradshaw. This journey in the captured
limousine was to test a plan of Bradshaw’s. You will learn of that plan as you
read on. While Bradshaw was driving the limousine on the journey to Newport, the
train was carrying the rest of the Welsh resistance fighters and the rescued
leaders from the North, back to the Welsh headquarters at Aberporth. The
leaders from the North were Edward Barnard, from Durham,
Richard Miller, from Cumberland, and
William Sinclair, from Dumfries.
Though their guide, Jake Allen, the road scout, had told them something of what
to expect, they were astonished by the journey. The loco sheds at Aberporth
looked like a graveyard for steam engines, but several were in excellent working
order. The visitors were taken to headquarters in a hill from which coal had
been mined and which was honeycombed with passages and caves. Edward Barnard
asked if the arsenal of nuclear weapons was there. “No, it’s three miles away,
at Llanwelly,” he was told. Out of the cold and the snow, the newcomers were
taken along a warm, lighted gallery to the “room” where David Llewellyn kept
his useful vigil in front of a television screen. The Kushantis were having
trouble at the transmitter as usual and the screen was blank. Llewellyn,
recovering from a severe chest wound, exchanged warm greetings with the men
from the North. “You must be starving,” he said, “so we’ll ask our cook to send
some food in. We’re not short of good, Welsh mutton.” The meal was quickly
served. While they were eating, the television screen flickered and the face of
Mr Muchi, a well known Kushanti announcer, appeared. “We do not apologise for
the brief interruption,” he hissed. “I will now resume the reading of the Truth
Bulletin. As is known, Marshal Sinn, the illustrious President of Kushanti, is
residing in WindsorCastle during
his visit to subject Britain. It
has been decided that in future WindsorCastle will
be referred to as Marshal Sinn’s MostInferiorCastle. This
Bulletin is to be followed by a special treat for viewers when a film is to be
shown of his Exalted Excellency’s MostSuperiorCastle at
Muk, the capital of Kushanti.” Mr Muchi went on to say that snow was forecast
for all areas. “That is the end of the Truth Bulletin and we now arrive at our
special item,” he announced. “We convey you to Marshal Sinn’s magnificent
residence, the jewel of Kushanti, the MostSuperiorCastle in the
world.” Mr Muchi faded. A gong boomed. On the screen a film started to run.
“Look at it!” shouted Llewellyn gleefully. It was a film taken on a pig farm
and showed a huge pig in the foreground guzzling in a trough of swill. Once
more mockery had been made of Marshal Sinn, once again he had been made to lose
face. The Kushantis were being driven frantic by the persons who kept cutting
into their transmissions with such deadly effect. “It’s wonderful propaganda
against the Kushantis,” chuckled Edward Barnard. “Have you any idea who’s
behind it?” “We believe it is a former radio producer named Jerry Hobhouse,”
replied Llewellyn. “We’re trying to get into touch with him.” It was about an
hour later that Bradshaw strode into the room where the council-of-war of the
resistance fighters had started. Llewellyn was presiding, and Harold Tudor, the
scientists at Llanwelly, had come along to give details of the nuclear weapons
he had under his charge in the arsenal. There was an inquiring hush when
Bradshaw appeared. He seemed to be singularly cheerful. “I’ve been worrying for
some time as how to distribute the explosives about the country,” he said. “But
tonight Ira Jones and I have solved the problem. We have covered the best part
of a hundred miles in a Kushanti staff limousine. We came across at least ten
road blocks, but, as I anticipated, we were never stopped.” “When I heard of
your expedition I thought you were taking a big risk,” said Llewellyn. “Not a
bit of it, David,” retorted Bradshaw. “The Kushantis fell over themselves in
clearing the roads. It’s clear that the high Kushanti officers and officials
use captured British limousines, and that the troops would never dare stop such
a car.” “Let us get this clear,” said William Sinclair, from Dumfries—“You
say that if we use big, important-looking cars we shall be able to smuggle the
explosives all over the country?” “That’s what I am saying,” rapped Bradshaw.
“We’ll get the cars all right, and I’m sure they’ll do the trick.

Sinn Is Stranded

The council-of-war
was resumed in the morning, another wintry day. One valuable piece of
information soon came out. Edward Barnard stated that he had contracts with
small. But determined groups of secret fighters in London and Birmingham;
Bradshaw himself was in touch with the South of England
network that had its centre in Chippenham.

Maps found on dead and captured
Kushantis were studied. Barracks, camps, staff headquarters, airfields,
communication centres, secret police buildings and naval installations were
marked for destruction, either by delayed action bombs or rockets. “I’m sure of
one thing,” said Barnard at the end of a long session, “that we’ve only got to
light the torch for the country to rise and finish the work that we’ve
started.” “Yes, and we’ll make it some torch!” retorted Bradshaw. That Bradshaw
was right in his theory about the cars was shown when the northern leaders
employed the limousine for their return journey, and were often saluted by
Kushanti guards—but never stopped! Pontigos was selected as the point to which
the explosives were taken by train and where they were picked up by cars. Will
o’ the Whistle and the other railwaymen were kept busy. The weather was
favourable. The clouds were low and there were frequent falls of snow to reduce
visibility. On a night in late February, Bradshaw, Llewellyn and Ira Jones were
in Bradshaw’s office. On one wall was a map of their region, and on another a
new map of the British Isles had
been painted. Red squares marked the spots that were to be attacked. When the
preparations were completed in a particular place, a blue circle was painted
round the square. There was a phone in the office. It was connected to the
Newport Exchange, and occasionally an operator named Roberts risked his life to
speak. It was an acute risk he took because the operators were closely watched
by Kushanti supervisors. All of the resistance fighters gave a start when the
phone started to ring. Bradshaw took the receiver. “Will o’ the Whistle,” he
said using the code name. The line was alive, but at first there was no answer.
He heard background noises and he thought he detected some Kushanti voices.
Then he heard a whisper: “This is Roberts! Hold on! I’ve some very important
news for you!” He broke off. Bradshaw, his expression intent, again heard
Kushanti voices in the background. As they receded, Roberts spoke again. “Marshal
Sinn’s train is held up by the snow at Pontypool
Road,” he whispered. “The snow has fetched the
overhead wires down, and it is stuck. He was on his way from Lancashire to Cardiff, but
the train will not move till the blizzard stops.” There was a click and the
line went dead. “Get Will o’ the Whistle,” Bradshaw rapped at Ira. “There’s a
chance of scuppering Marshal Sinn himself!” Ira uttered a yell and dashed out.
Bradshaw told Llewellyn what Roberts had told him. “Ah, it’s not the first
holdup they’ve had in winter since they electrified the main line from Newport to Shrewsbury and
the North,” stated Llewellyn. “I presume Marshal Sinn was on his way to Cardiff to
arrange four our obliteration, eh?” Bradshaw’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll obliterate
him if we can get through, Dave,” he declared. “I’ve always maintained that
Marshal Sinn is the kingpin of the Kushanti regime, and that if we can get him
the others will be a good bit easier to lick!” “Perhaps the enemy has been
delivered into our hands,” said Llewellyn tensely. The sturdy figure of Will o’
the Whistle, the veteran engine driver, appeared in the doorway. Bradshaw
repeated the news and it was received with a scoffing laugh by Will. “Bah,
their tram cars are no good when the weather gets a bit rough,” he jeered about
the diesel electric trains. “Will o’ the Whistle believed that steam trains
were the best. “But can we get through, Will?” demanded Bradshaw. The West
Junction line had formerly extended to Pontypool
Road. The end of it was now at Pontymeeth, up in
the hills and something like two miles from the main line station. “I’ve three
engines in steam,” said Will o’ the Whistle. “With a snow plough fixed on the
first of ‘em we’ll get through!” The leading engine was the “Caradoc Grange”
with Will o’ the Whistle at the regulator, and Bradshaw acting as the fireman.
The second locomotive was a mixed-traffic engine, a mogul. The third was a tank
engine. There were a hundred resistance fighters in the train of six coaches
and vans. David Llewellyn was among them. He had said that nothing would keep
him away. Bradshaw had become familiar with the duties of a fireman while on
his frequent footplate trips with Will o’ the Whistle. He opened the main
injector to feed water to the boiler. The train went pounding along with a
mighty display of steam power. A spray of fine snow was rising on either side
as the snow plough cleared the rails. When they were seven miles out from
Aberporth and approaching Caerglint, a mountain village, Bradshaw caught a
glimpse of a faint red light and shouted to Will o’ the Whistle. As the driver
of the leading engine, Will controlled the brakes. He gave a warning pip on the
whistle, shut off steam, and brought the train to a halt. A snow splattered
lookout climbed stiffly on to the footplate. “You’ll never get through
Caerglint station, Will,” he shouted hoarsely. “The snow has drifted as high as
your chimney. Will o’ the Whistle came across the footplate. “We’ll get
through,” he said. “Indeed we will! We’ll uncouple the engines from the coaches
and charge the drift!” He lowered himself to the ground and went back to bellow
his orders to the drivers of the other engines. Trevor Morgan, the guard, had
come forward to find out why the train had stopped. He placed his lamp on the
ground, ducked under the buffers and wrestled with the frozen couplings until
they were free. Will o’ the Whistle looked like a snowman by the time he got
back into his cab. Will gave a hoot on the whistle and the others responded. He
cracked open the regulator and turned the gear handle. With a rapid exhaust
note, Caradoc Grange picked up speed and, behind it, the Mogul and the big tank
engine whacked along. Bradshaw peered ahead. Clickety, clack, Clickety, clack!
The racing wheels clattered over the rail joints. He made out a mountainous,
white bank ahead and held on to the hand rail like grim death. With a
prodigious thud the snow plough rammed the drift. Caradoc Grange reeled from
the colossal shock, seemed to lift from the rails and then settle again with
another tremendous jolt. Snow just about smothered the engines but the wheels
kept pounding away and, suddenly started to race. Will o’ the Whistle shut the
regulator. “We’re through!” he shouted.

The Avengers Strike

Marshal Sinn, the
Kushanti leader, sat at the table in a luxurious saloon carriage. Batteries had
been switched on to provide light and heat in the stalled train at Pontypool
Road. There was a
cigar between the Marshal’s blubbery lips.

Staff officers tip-toed in and out.
At the other end of the table General Chang, the actual conqueror of Britain, was
permitted to sit. The Marshal studied the map and jabbed his finger on Cardiff. “You
will round up all male persons between the ages of fourteen and forty in the
city and ship them to our uranium mines in Greenland where
we are short of labour,” he said. “It shall be done, Excellency,” answered
General Chang. “Now we will discuss the campaign against the rebels,” Sinn
said. “Make a note of this—” The door opened behind him. “Shut the door!” he
roared, “I am in a draught!” General Chang uttered a gasp, and when Marshal
Sinn looked over his shoulder he saw a man with blazing eyes, white hair and a
soaked khaki uniform. Gun in hand, Ira Jones advanced slowly. Behind him
towered Bradshaw and Llewellyn was there as well. The numerous Kushanti
sentries had been overpowered. The cigar fell from Marshal Sinn’s fingers. “I
am going to kill you,” said Ira Jones quietly. General Chang snatched for the
pistol in his holster. Bradshaw’s gun fired and the Kushanti Commander-in-Chief
crashed lifeless across the table. Marshal Sinn flopped out of his chair and
screamed for mercy. He had never in his life shown any. He received none from
Ira Jones.

On a morning two days later Will o’
the Whistle held down the whistle cord of Caradoc Grange, and the sound was
picked up by a microphone. The scream of the whistle was heard from all
wireless receivers switched on in Britain, for
Jerry Hobhouse, with whom contact had been made, had arranged to cut into the
Kushanti transmissions from his secret station. The Kushantis had not announced
the death of Marshal Sinn, but the news had spread all over the land. The
whistle screeched and it was the signal for action, for D-Day, the day of
deliverance. All over Britain the
nuclear bombs and warheads exploded in the Kushanti strongholds. With guns and
rockets the enemy was assailed. Their three biggest aircraft carriers lying in PortlandHarbour were
blown to smithereens by nuclear limpet bombs fixed to their keels by British
frogmen. Not a plane took off. So complete were the plans of the resistance
fighters that every airfield was obliterated within five minutes of Will o’ the
Whistle blowing the whistle. The people rose in every city, town, and village.
In every place the cruel Kushanti bullies and brutes were hunted down and
killed. A week later the Royal Train ran towards London
bringing the Queen back to her capital from where she had been kept in safety.
It was not an electric train, it was not hauled by a diesel locomotive. The
decorated engine that pulled the train was the City of Truro, the
old record breaking steam engine, gleaming like new instead of being an old
lady of over ninety. Bradshaw rode on the footplate. With him was David
Llewellyn. Bursting with pride and with his eyes glistening, Will o’ the
Whistle drove Her Majesty back to London.